The sound of thunder
by Mikiya2200
Summary: A moment taken out of the boys' lives, no fighting, no lies, no angels, just the boys and family.


**A/N:** This is my way of coping with the season opener: Getting back to the roots of the show, to the things I fell in love with. I wanted the boys relaxed, at peace, not fighting with each other. It kind of... evolved from there on.

**Betaed **(once again) by the awesome **Ghost **who always knows what I want to say and who "forced" me to finish this. Thanks again, hun, wouldn't have done it without you, these days what's really keeping me in the show is you and... countless rewatching of seasons 1-3. -hugs- Thank you!

**Disclaimer**: Don't own the boys, the cars or the game, all belongs to people who don't deserve them.

**_Dedicated to the show I used to love._**

I woke last night to the sound of thunder

How far off I sat and wondered

Started humming a song from 1962

Ain't it funny how the night moves

When you just don't seem to have as much to lose

Strange how the night moves

With autumn closing in

**Bob Seger, _Night moves_**

* * *

The humming distracts me.

I glance up and blink into the late evening sun. In my hands lies the heart of my Beretta, broken apart and waiting to be oiled. Normally I find the job soothing, relaxing, but the humming distracts me. Mary used to sing like that, under her breath so I wouldn't hear. Sometimes out loud when she didn't know I was there. She always sang with so much feeling and so little _skill_. I used to make fun of her whenever I caught her, I remember that. And she'd just laugh at me and sing even louder.

Dean is so much his mother's son when it comes down to singing— he can't hold a tune for the life of him. If there's ever a monster you have to kill by singing we're screwed. It doesn't stop him from doing it whenever there's music, and with him and the car there always is.

Sam on the other hand… never heard him sing alone, sometimes he howls along with Dean to some rock song, but he'd usually rather listen to it than join in. He's like me in that.

He's listening to Dean now, slouching comfortably in one of the wobbly plastic chairs we found and drug out into the sun next to the cars. Parking lots are good for catching a little sun on occasion. I don't know if that faint smile playing at Sam's lips is directed at Dean's non-existent singing 'talent', or the little travel chess game he's balancing on his lap. A few minutes ago he was studying it intently to figure out his next move, but now he's more or less blinking drowsily at it, on the verge of dozing off. Dean's only a few feet away, washing the car and alternating between talking softly under his breath (to the car I think) and singing along to the radio. Every once in a while he stops and takes a step back, head canted to the side and eyes narrowed slightly, studying the paintjob for possible spots he could have missed.

We're taking the day off, licking our wounds from the hunt last night. It was bad; the spirits were on us before we found out there were actually three of them. We got knocked around some. Dean got hit so hard that he took down a whole chunk of wall before we could burn the bones. But in the end we got the job done and there was not a single bone broken in the process. That was a success in my book, so I figured we'd deserve some rest. And getting a rest in this case means soaking up the sun, cleaning guns and the Impala, and –in Sam's case– having a chess match with yourself.

I watch Sam for a moment, the lazy sprawl, the puzzled frown on his face that is slowly dissolving into a sleepy, not-quite-there-anymore smile. I haven't seen him this relaxed for quite some time now, our days on the road are taking a toll on him, on us all, but he won't talk about it. And I'm not asking. That's dangerous territory. But it's nice to see him let go of whatever it is for a few hours. He isn't as tense as usual and that's all I care about at the moment.

The small board on his lap moves slightly whenever he breathes, and the sun's reflecting off it, catching my eyes. Mary had bought it when we started out on our first real vacation together. A road trip. About a week after she'd told me she was finally pregnant. Celebrating that our days of having time to just travel were coming to an end. We'd taken off for a couple of weeks, wanting to get away from the bad memories that still haunted her from time to time. She'd said it felt wrong that her child start its existence in the same town where her parents had been murdered. I can't say I understood it completely, but she'd wanted to go, and so we had. Dean started his journey to life on the road. We'd stopped at some gas station and she came back with the plastic box and one of those awful air fresheners. We put the game in the glove compartment and I made damn sure to 'lose' the freshener at the first chance I got.

Years later Sam found the game and wanted to know what was in the box. I think he must have been about seven or something. I remember his eyes lightning up when I told him it was a game his mother had bought before he was born. He'd handled it like someone who'd found a holy relic. And of course he told Dean– high priest of Mary— and then they'd both asked me to teach them how to play. I can still see their solemn faces, both of them looking at me as if I was about to tell them the meaning of life or something equally important. So I showed them. Both of them learned fast, faster than I'd ever see them learn anything so far, but Dean pretty soon lost interest. The game didn't suite him. He got too bored with having to sit still and concentrate on something as structured as chess— he loved to improvise, even back then, creating new rules at every opportunity.

Sam, on the other hand, couldn't get enough. I was thrilled about it at first, I'd figured since chess is all about tactics and strategies it was the perfect way to teach him some rules he would have to learn for the hunt later. I even let him win the first few games to keep him interested.

And then the teacher became the pupil. Sam started wining. Every time we played, no matter what tactics I came up with. I didn't get it at first, I couldn't understand why he was so obsessed with the game, why he would play it over and over. Until we lost the first piece, one of the white pawns. Sam looked for it everywhere, turning the room upside down, telling us he wouldn't leave the motel until we found it. When I finally told him we'd look for something to replace it with he looked utterly shocked, tears gathering in his eyes as he choked out, "But it belongs to Mom, she'll be sad if we lose it…" And all the pieces clicked into place, Sam wasn't crazy about the game, he had found some kind of connection to his mother, felt closer to her when he was playing the game.

And I felt bad about it because I never had the heart to tell him that Mary had never used the game, probably couldn't even play it. We tried to find the damned pawn, but it never turned up again and eventually we replaced it with a white Lego piece. I still remember that night, how Sam woke me, telling me he'd had a nightmare about Mary being angry at him for losing the pawn. It took me more than two hours to convince him it had been just a dream and that his mother would never be angry at him about the game. It was the first time Sam truly realized that his mother was gone and wouldn't come back… and one of the few times he came to me for comfort rather than Dean.

Over the years more and more chess pieces got lost and were replaced. Sam kept playing the game and got even better at it. Once, Dean and I tried to beat him together and lost, big time. Mostly because we couldn't agree on which move to make. I kept going for the logical choice while Dean studied his brother and seemed to be able to read his mind about his next move. Sam wouldn't let us hear the end of it— for days he went on about how he was so much smarter than we were, and even though it really got on my nerves I couldn't make myself tell him to stop. It wasn't often Sam felt better than Dean or me at anything. And lord knew Dean hounded Sam about how much a better shot he was. I figured the kid deserved a little payback…and what the hell, he had beaten us both. It was something to be proud of.

These days Sam prefers to play against himself, and once I even caught him staring at the board with a weird expression on his face, mumbling something about never having seen it coming.

A particularly flat howl from Dean snaps me back to the present to find him looking over at us and rolling his eyes, before he goes back to scrubbing the Impala's hood, singing louder now.

"_Rock of ages, rock of ages! It's been corroded, been corroded…_"

Sam looks up and grins at him half-heartedly, more asleep now than awake, and the board moves again as he shifts. I look at it for a moment, and suddenly his frown from earlier makes sense. It dawns on me that he hasn't moved any of the pieces for a long time now. I think he's stuck, he doesn't see the move that would get him out of the situation he's put himself in. I do, though; and I lean over, moving one of his pawns. His gaze darts back to the game. That's a classic Sam-tactic, so busy worrying about the 'big' pieces that he misses the pawn. It takes him just a glance to understand where he got stuck and he rolls his eyes, sighing softly. I know how much he hates to be shown where he went wrong and for a split second I expect him to snap at me, almost regretting the move.

But then he looks up at me and grins again.

"Thanks."

I wink at him and lean back again, one hand resting on the parts of the gun while Sam goes back to his game, a little more awake now. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Dean standing at the car, watching us, and as I turn to look at him his body-language changes: Where he was relaxed and as lazy as Sam only moments before, he now moves slower, more purposefully. He is up to something and from the way his eyes are fixed on his brother, from the mischievous glint that suddenly lights them up, I know whatever is going through his mind has prank-like proportions.

Dean's eyes meet mine and I see his plan falter. It's like he's forgotten I'm here, too, and that my being where I am is a flaw in his plan. That, and the running hose, more than anything else, tells me what he's about to unleash on his unsuspecting brother. Or was about to— as soon as he looks at me he stops planning and for just a second I see my fourteen year old boy asking me to help him make Sam smile again.

I don't know why, I don't know if he'll notice, but I move in my chair, slowly leaning away from Sam. _Tacit__ permission given, do your worst_.

He gets it.

I look away, lean even more to the other side, one hand slowly putting the gun-parts out of the way of whatever—who am I kidding, I know what's going to happen next and I don't want the delicate parts to get wet.

And then there's a rush of water and the most undignified yelp I have ever heard from Sam. The chess board goes flying, as do the tiny pieces and I'm sure there go at least another two or three pieces of the original pieces never to be found again. Sam explodes out of his chair, knocking it over in the process, and it clatters to the floor as he whirls on Dean with a curse.

"What the FU—"

The rest of his curse is lost to a round of sputtering when Dean aims at Sam's face and does his best to drown his brother where he is standing. Sam staggers back and throws his hands in front of his face, trying in vain to shield himself from the water. I can hear Dean laugh over the furious words Sam is throwing at him, and I can't really suppress a snicker of my own. When Dean finally lets off, Sam is standing in front of us, soaking wet hair plastered to his skull, dripping water everywhere whenever he moves. It takes a second for Sam to catch his breath but we'd never been able to silence him for long and a moment later he's cursing again, throwing insult after insult at his brother.

Dean is laughing so hard he has to lean on the car and Sam turns, throws an accusing glare at me, like he is asking how could I let this happen. He must have seen the smirk I'm trying very hard to hide and his face goes from pissed to incredulous and then right again back to furious. I can't help but grin at him, about to say something about not dripping on my shoes, but suddenly his eyes narrow dangerously. And he starts shaking like a wet dog, big drops of water flying everywhere, most of them hitting me right in the face. I'm not as wet as he is but he still got me and I can see the satisfaction lighting up his features.

By now Dean is laughing at the both of us, barely able to stand anymore, and I decide right then that I won't have that. My eyes search Sam's gaze and my smirk is back. My hands shift and I watch as Sam reads the signals. He grins at the instructions, catching my meaning as easily as on the hunt.

_Get him._

Sam is fast, I have to give him that.

All those years of chess have paid off, Sam is an expert tactician. And it isn't long until Dean is as soaked as Sam… and my gun and Dean's car, and Sam's game… all lay abandoned in the sun, as, for just this afternoon, we play the same game. Together.


End file.
